


Mycroft Lost

by BrynTWedge



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But Character Death still, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Grief, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Paradox, Suicide, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 18:36:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14408103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrynTWedge/pseuds/BrynTWedge
Summary: Greg Lestrade is called into work early. The body he finds is that of Mycroft Holmes. Grief-stricken, he doesn't know what to do with himself. He never even told Mycroft that he'd loved him for years. When coincidentally, Mycroft's time-travelling friend, the Doctor, grabs him out of nowhere to return Mycroft's umbrella, Greg takes matters into his own hands.





	Mycroft Lost

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on an emotional idea I had, coupled with seeing Mycroft's umbrella in the Tardis when Clara was going through his stuff.

Greg got a call early in the morning. A body had been found in the Thames. He’d hoped to be able to sleep a little longer, but duty called. He pulled on his trench coat for protection against the chilly morning, thinking that ultimately it didn’t matter if he had gotten to sleep longer — he never seemed to rest properly anyway. 

He arrived at the scene, noticing that the new crew was out setting things up properly. _Hmph, kids,_ Greg thought to himself as he walked past the forensics team. One of them came up and started describing the body, but Greg was only half paying attention. Something about the suit laying on the ground seemed familiar, and a strange sensation prickled at his gut. He walked closer, and suddenly the world started spinning. The air escaped his lungs in one go, leaving his chest tight and empty. He felt the nausea rise up, and then he was vomiting. With a few shaking steps, he approached the body and fell to his knees on the dirty bank.

_Mycroft Holmes._

The man he’d gotten to know for years. The man he enjoyed spending time with during their occasional lunches. The man he’d been desperately in love with, secretly, for some time… Greg never had managed to get the courage to say anything; he assumed someone posh like Mycroft would only be interested in someone of his own class, and he didn’t want their association to end. And now it had. Brutally, forcefully, come to a definite end. 

He said nothing. He just stared at the water-logged empty face. _Drowned_ , his mind supplied. It didn’t look like there were any other injuries. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Surely MI6 were looking for him, or some other secret government agency. He’d never pictured Mycroft being in the line of danger before: it had always been a concept of sitting away in a secluded office, behind a desk, wielding great power but never being in harm’s direct way. Clearly he’d been wrong. 

Vaguely Greg had registered people talking to him, shaking him, and a blanket being draped over him. It didn’t matter, though. Nothing did anymore. He didn’t care that Sally appeared out of nowhere, and that he was being dragged away from Mycroft’s body. Whatever it was that Sally was saying to him was lost on him. _Sherlock’s going to be devastated. He liked to pretend he hated Myc, but he did care. I should probably tell him._

Greg stood, and turned away. He walked back to his car. Sally grabbed him and pulled him away from the driver’s door, insisting he wasn’t in a state to drive. Greg could see her point, but couldn’t find any emotion inside him to actually mind. That in itself should have been indication enough that he shouldn’t drive. She asked him where he needed to go. He was temped to say: back to Myc’s. The part of his brain in denial seemed to think that he’d find Mycroft there, going about his day. _Please,_ Greg begged, _please let this be an elaborate deception for some reason. Let me find him safe and well at home_. He strangled out ‘Baker street’. 

He wouldn’t be able to face Mycroft’s home being empty. He’d only ever been there with Mycroft himself, and it wouldn’t be right without the man’s presence. Everything would just be a reminder of the man he’d lost his chance with permanently. 

Sally asked if she was to wait outside, but Greg sent her on her way. He didn’t know how long he’d be there, nor did he particularly want to go anywhere afterwards. He just hoped that John was home. He’d spoken to John often about his fondness for Mycroft, and so having someone around to understand the severity of the loss would help.

The room froze as he entered it. Sherlock was halfway though taking a sip of tea, and John was walking past to the kitchen. They both just looked at him, able to see how shaken he was. The next instant, John was shepherding him onto the sofa, and for the first time Greg could remember, Sherlock was giving him his undivided attention. 

The dam broke as John placed his hand upon Greg’s shoulder. He wailed, screamed, grabbed a hold of his mate’s chest, and bawled. The tears streamed out and soaked John’s jumper, who was rather taken aback at the sudden display. Greg still hadn’t said a word. He’d been asked what had happened a few times, each one more concerned than the last. After some minutes, Greg got enough breath to give an answer. One word was all it took. One syllable. _Myc_. 

John wrapped his arms around Greg as he continued to cry. Sherlock leapt to his feet and frantically started making phone calls. At least he knew not to try wrangle any more information out of Greg. 

~

John wasn’t sure how to help. He felt upset that Sherlock’s brother was dead, but it was nothing compared to how the two people closest to him felt. Greg had quietened down into a silent shock on the couch, and hadn’t moved. Sherlock was in his chair, also silent, away in his mind. John sat in his own chair and just thought about the situation. Poor Greg had been pining after the man for years, and it was clear that the two had been getting closer. Hell, John had been preparing Greg to actually make a move and do something about it. 

He knew what it was like to have your world collapse in an instant. It had happened to John at least twice, once in a very similar manner. All he knew what to do about it for his friends, though, was to keep providing tea and food even if they weren’t consumed.

They were waiting for people to get back to Sherlock about the circumstances of Mycroft’s death. John failed to see how it would help, but knew that his flatmate would be comforted by data. It just worried him that Sherlock was about to go out with a vengeance and cause someone a world of pain. By the looks of Greg, he’d have no trouble with Scotland Yard if he did, either. 

Sherlock’s mobile chimed, and then chimed again. The man picked up the phone, frowned, intently stared at the screen for a few minutes, and then threw the phone at the wall above Greg. The Detective Inspector didn’t flinch, but he at least perked up for information. Sherlock, however, had curled up into a ball and wasn’t about to start talking. Instead Greg picked up the phone, hoping that it was intact enough to view what Sherlock had seen. 

“Suicide?!” Greg shouted into the silence, and John’s eyes widened in shock. Greg dropped the phone back on the floor, and sat radiating hurt and anger.  
“What? Mycroft?” John was surprised to say the least.  
“I-I knew he said he struggled, sometimes… he told me about the emptiness, the loneliness… I just thought it was sharing, ya know? That he was getting help. I had no idea…” Greg trailed off, rubbing his face with his hands. “Fucking hell,” he shouted, “why didn’t he call me? He… he _knew_ I would have answered, that I would have listened. What the fuck went through his head? I would have been there, I’d have done anything he needed…” Greg’s voice broke as the lump formed, effectively cutting off speech. He resigned himself to just cry some more.

John looked at Sherlock, who had tears of his own running down his face. The doctor got the distinct impression that his flatmate had just seen footage he’d never be able to forget, no matter how hard he tried. Greg seemed to have found his voice, and was whimpering softly.   
“Was I not there enough for him? Did he feel so alone that he couldn’t turn to me… and it was my fault?”  
“Greg… I don’t think any of this was your fault. Things like this… it’s not anyone’s fault,” John said softly.  
“Come off it, I know that’s not true. I’m the bastard that deals with the people that do this, and the people that knew them. Often times there were signs no one bothered to notice. The people could have gotten help but didn’t. Either they tried and no one took them seriously enough, or there wasn’t anyone around to help.” Greg didn’t mean to make is words so sharp, but he was angry and couldn’t seem to direct it properly.   
“Sometimes people get help Greg, but take their lives anyway. There’s not always something that could have been done.”  
“Fuck that! Of course there is! Someone could have fucking stopped them. Someone could have been there when they needed it. Getting sick of someone being depressed isn’t an excuse to stop being around, which I know happens a lot.”

John let Greg shout; he knew the man needed it. The things he was saying were true, of course, but John had only been trying to help shift some of that guilt off Greg’s shoulders. It had no place being there — even if Greg potentially could have prevented Mycroft’s death by checking in. It wasn’t fair to expect someone to always check in, was it?

~ 

Greg had refused to stay with John and Sherlock that night. John had been insistent, but Greg needed to just be on his own for a while. He also wanted to just give Sherlock some space to grieve properly. The night was cold, but Greg was still wearing his trench coat from the morning. He walked along the street aimlessly, without energy, and without an idea where to go from here. A world without Mr Holmes at the helm could potentially be disastrous for many countries. A world without Mycroft seemed a very empty place for Greg. 

He tossed his cigarette to the street. Sherlock had given him a handful from his stash, and John hadn’t batted an eye. It was his last, however, and Greg found himself craving nicotine already. He didn’t care, though. He didn’t even care that he was bumping into people; the many people that walked the streets of London who believed themselves so self-important that they refused to move out of his way, expecting him to do so instead. Either that or they were too distracted in their own little worlds to notice, much like him. 

When a hand reached out from nowhere and pulled him, Greg didn’t even feel a surge of adrenaline. He managed to catch a glimpse of where the arm was dragging him: a blue police box. _Odd place to be murdered, but whatever. Ironic. No, Mycroft would have said that it wasn’t ironic. Irony was apparently something else, and Mycroft’s face had shone when explaining the difference. Doesn’t matter now does it? Mycroft’s gone._

“Sorry to just grab you off the street like that,” a man spoke.   
Greg looked at the voice to see a young bloke, dressed in a suit with a bow tie, hauling him into a large room. He was then released, and the man pranced up the stairwell to the central spire of the room. He spun on his heels, clapped his hands together, and stared at Greg. Greg just stared back with uninterested eyes.   
“Well?”   
“Well what?”   
The man gestured to the room. Greg shrugged. Some space age nonsense, or hipster, or something along those lines. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.   
“It’s just usually people get a bit of a shock when they see her for the first time, being bigger on the inside and all.”  
“Who?”  
“My Tardis.”  
“Alright, mate. Look can we just get this over with?” Greg’s voice was tired.  
“Over with? I’ve just shown you an incredibly advanced space ship that’s bigger on the inside and all you have to say is ‘get this over with’?” 

Greg obliged the man’s desperation and looked about. _Huh. So it was bigger on the inside. Still doesn’t matter._ “And?”  
“And? Geez, you are a bore, aren’t you? Look at you: just standing there uninterested, like nothing in the world, or beyond for that matter, would get a reaction out of you. I’m the Doctor, by the way.” 

_Oh. I’ve lost it. Hallucination. Seems about right. This must be my doctor. I don’t remember being sent to a facility, but then again… no memory after this morning really matters, does it?_ Greg sighed and rubbed his face. Why was he disappointed he wasn’t about to be murdered? “Alright, Doctor. I’ll take my pills and go to my cell like a good boy. Can I leave now?”  
The Doctor frowned at him. “Mocking me, eh? I’ll have you know that I _do_ have a cell, not that I’d put you in it though. Probably should clean the pears out of there first, anyway. My last self hated them, you see, and he thought that it’d be a great idea to lock them up one day… don’t know why, he was a bit strange sometimes. I guess I haven’t really changed all that much.” The Doctor chuckled to himself and leant back on the console. “Sorry, lost track a bit there. No, I’m not a medical doctor! I just call me that. I’m a doctor of … stuff. Timey stuff. Yes. Now, where was I? Oh yes, so welcome aboard my ship, the Tardis.”  
“Look either just kill me or let me leave, I don’t care about you showing off your ship.”   
“To be honest, I had expected you to be more fun.”  
“Expected much of me, did you?”  
“Well, yeah, actually. Mycroft would go on and on about you, and I said I’d like to meet you one day—”  
“Wait, you said Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes? You knew him?”  
“Oh, yeah, we’ve been meeting up for ages. Well, longer for me that him, but that’s just what happens when you’re a time traveller. But that’s not the point. The point is, he left his umbrella here and I know how much he loves it, and so I’m returning it to him and I figured that since you’re his partner and all you could give it to him.” The Doctor reached for Mycroft’s umbrella, outstretched his arm to give it to Greg, but then froze and and pointed the handle at Greg instead. “Wait, what did you say? You used past tense; why did you use past tense? You are Greg Lestrade, right? I’m in the right time period aren’t I?” The Doctor turned and looked up at his screen. 

Greg breathed heavily and sighed. “Yeah, yeah I am. But I’m not — I wasn’t — I wasn’t his partner. Wish I could have been, though. He died.” The words were thick in Greg’s mouth, and left an unpleasant taste. He didn’t want to have to use those words again.   
“What? When?”  
“Today. Well, I guess last night really.” 

The Doctor stopped and really looked at Greg. The intense grief was suddenly very obvious. “That’s … that’s not right,” he hummed thoughtfully.   
“You’re tellin’ me, mate. Fuck I wish I could have been there. I could have stopped him. I know I could have.”  
“Stopped him? …Oh. I … I need to see this for myself. Something isn’t right about this.” 

Greg remained standing near the door. The man, the Doctor, began moving about the console an flicking controls. Greg didn’t care. He just stayed where he was; he didn’t want to risk catching a glimpse of that video. Seeing it happen might just finish him off. The manic Doctor then rushed by him, and out the door. Greg sighed and shuffled behind him. 

Exiting the door, he noticed that he was in a different place. He looked about, but it was really too dark to get much of an idea as to where he was. His eyes adjusted a little, and managed to see the figure of the Doctor standing close by, leaning against a railing of a bridge. _Ok, so I’m at some bridge over the Thames. Wait… has he taken me to where Myc…?  
_ “I don’t know why—”  
“Shh,” the Doctor hushed, and looked forward intently. “You may want to go back inside.”   
Greg turned around and saw the police box again, sitting on the pavement. He figured that if he _had_ lost it, his mind was doing a wonderful job. Consistency did really make things believable. He turned back around to his mad companion-hallucination, and caught sight of movement up ahead. A tall figure doused in shadow was moving up along the bridge. Greg’s blood ran cold.  
“Is that?”  
“Mhm.”  
“Why on Earth—”  
“I can’t accept it, not after our last conversation. Something must be up; if it’s my fault, I need to rectify it.”   
“Time-?”  
“Yes, do keep up,” the Doctor whispered. “But in all seriousness, you really should go back inside. You don’t want to see this.” 

Greg remained still and silent as he saw the figure, Mycroft, come to a halt in the middle of the bridge. He no longer cared if it was a hallucination. He needed to do something to stop him. Mycroft needed someone, and whether it be by time travel or only in his grief-addled mind, Greg was doing to be that someone. He prepared to bolt once Mycroft had slumped against the railing. He glanced at the Doctor; not looking at him, which meant he’d not be grabbed. He took a deep breath… and sprinted.   
The Doctor shouted his name behind him, and Mycroft turned his way to see what the noise was. In the blink of an eye, Greg had tackled Mycroft to the ground. He pinned the man beneath him, pressing both wrists together behind his back. His heart was pounding and his was out of breath, but it barely had to do with his run.   
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Greg raged. “Don’t. Fucking. Dare.”  
“Gregory?” Mycroft’s voice was mumbled by the pavement his face was pressed against.   
“Why didn’t you call me? I would have fucking come for you, Myc. I would _always_ have come when you needed me. I thought you knew that!” Greg was shouting, and crying, but he didn’t care in the slightest. “I can’t lose you. I need you. I love you. Why… _why_ …?”  
“Greg, what have you done?” The Doctor had caught up, and was standing behind Greg.   
“What needed doing,” Greg responded gruffly.   
“You’ve no idea what you’ve done…”  
“I stopped the fucking love of my life from killing himself! That’s what I’ve done! If you’re gonna berate me for it, be my fucking guest.” 

In the distance Greg could hear a bell chime, but his entire focus was still on Mycroft below him.  
“Are you planning on letting me up any time soon, Gregory?”  
“No. You’re staying fucking where I can keep you safe. I’m not taking any chances. I’m gonna call the squad, and take you to the hospital.”  
“You seem pretty adamant as to my intent.”  
“FUCK YOU!” Greg shouted, all of his anger and grief spilling out. His tears then intensified and he found himself balling as he sat upon Mycroft. “I know what you were going to do,” he wailed, “because for me you’ve already done it. I saw you. I saw you laying on the bank, cold and wet.”  
“Ah,” Mycroft mumbled, “I take it then that the extra voice here is that of the Doctor?”  
“Yes, Mycroft.”  
“I wouldn’t have expected you to permit this, let alone orchestrate it.”  
“Shut up,” Greg spat, “just shut up. I can’t handle your casual attitude. You were going to fucking kill yourself, Myc, and it tore my fucking heart out. When your alien mate here pulled me off the street, I was expecting to be murdered, and I was bloody _glad_. A world without you… I can’t…”

Mycroft remained silent under Greg’s shaking body. He seemed to be thinking over Greg’s words… from the future-version part to the ‘I love you’ part. The silence let Greg calm down a notch, and he was confident enough that Mycroft wasn’t about to wriggle his way free that he reached for his mobile. He called for help, but was short and to the point. The Doctor seemed to want to complain about time and paradoxes, but Greg didn’t care about that either. Mycroft was safe, for now, and that was all that mattered. 

~

The Doctor had followed Greg and Mycroft to the hospital. Mycroft hadn’t sustained any injuries, and so was sent to the psychiatric ward to be kept under suicide watch. Mycroft complained and protested, but Greg was very strict in his orders. If Mycroft was honest, he was feeling extremely guilty and a little scared. It had been a bad night. He’d gone to the bridge with the intent of possibly jumping. He’d done that in the past numerous times, but each time he’d just stand there and look at the water a while, and then walk home. Other nights Mycroft had felt too depressed to even go out to the bridge… it seemed to take the right combination of depression and energy to actually motivate him to take action.

It wasn’t something he spoke of. It had been years of the struggle, and he’d mostly done it alone. He’d seen a few doctors, spoken to a few psychologists and psychiatrists… but they were mostly idiots. Either trying to cram him into a box for a diagnosis or three, for then to treat with a standardised method that didn’t apply to him, or they didn’t do much other than simply listen. If he was honest, the latter was more helpful. The medication seemed to just make him feel more detached than better. 

He thought about what Greg had said. That he could have called him to talk. He’d never really considered that option. Honestly, he’d assumed that he’d just be told to get over it, to pull himself together, to just… not feel that way. It tended to be the assumption of society. 

Greg had pulled his badge on multiple occasions to the staff in order to remain with Mycroft at all times. The Doctor had used his psychic paper. Mycroft had always found it amusing to see the little human brains be fooled so easily. Now that they were in the room alone, the Doctor was pacing uncomfortably. 

“Why don’t I learn? Of course they’re going to save their dead loved one.”  
“You still bitching about that?” Greg snapped. He was irritable, but it was stress-related than malicious.   
“Time itself is unravelling! Yes I’m still ‘bitching’ about it!”  
“Explain,” Mycroft stated from the bed.   
The Doctor flopped into the chair. “You left your umbrella on the Tardis. I went to return it to you, but the Tardis brought me to Greg instead. Tomorrow. After he’d found your body. I felt like there was something suspicious about it; I felt like there was a chance you were seen with me and an alien force decided to get rid of you. I could have stopped it then… it wasn’t a fixed event. But I brought him along, and, well…”  
“If my death was not a fixed point then why is the paradox so dangerous? Most sort themselves out when they’re minor.”   
The Doctor sighed and looked in Greg’s direction. Greg looked between the two men. “Listen to you, talking about time problems as if it’s an everyday thing. What does it matter?”  
“Gregory, you do not understand the severity of the situation. Kindly wait until we have finished the conversation.”  
“No, I’m as much a part of this as anyone. Your life is mine now, Mycroft.”  
“What?”  
“You threw it off that bridge and I caught it. It’s mine now, until you decide to take better care of it. And guess what? It’s legal, too, as far as the hospital is concerned.” Greg smirked. He didn’t intend to be mean, but he was too pleased that he had Mycroft back.   
“I … well, I think I should go back to the Tardis for a while. We don’t have a lot of time to work out a solution to this before things start falling apart like last time.” The Doctor stood and made to leave.   
“Wait… last time? How many bloody times have we done this?”  
“Oh, not you Greg. Someone else. A long time ago. Excuse me.” 

The Doctor left, and just Greg remained facing a sullen Mycroft. Greg felt the words unspoken between them linger in the air. He slumped in his chair, and began pouring his heart out. How he felt about Mycroft, how he was trying to get courage to do something about it, how he was utterly shattered when seeing his body. He expressed the feelings of hurt, of betrayal, when not being called upon for help. Mycroft remained silent through it all. 

~

“I can’t think of another way around this,” the Doctor announced as he entered the room. He looked sullen and exhausted.   
“Around what?” Greg snorted, but Mycroft just took his hand gently.   
“Greg, you’ve created a big problem.”   
“Does it look like I give a damn?”   
“No, but once the fabric of reality is torn you probably would.” The Doctor took a seat as he spoke, leant back in it, crossed his legs, and folded his hands in his lap.   
“What? Look someone had better start making sense, and soon. I’ve been through Hell the past 24 hours and it’s wrung me out.”   
“You changed history, Greg. Your own history. You created a paradox. The only reason you were there to save Mycroft was because you’d found him dead and we went back to investigate.”  
“But you said you could have stopped it! I don’t understand why me stopping him instead makes a difference.”   
“Firstly, I said if it was caused by me then I could have stopped it. I’m a timelord, I understand the intricacies of things like this. It’d take too long to try and explain why if I introduced the change in history, I could remove it again without consequence. And B, no… second… the Tardis can maintain a paradox centred around me. I’m not a part of the events, I don’t stay around very long to matter to the events, so the fissure caused is small and inconsequential. You, on the other hand, are central to this situation Greg. You’ve created a parallel world where you don’t belong anymore! If _I_ stopped Mycroft dying, if there had been an alien pushing him that I stopped, you wouldn’t have found him the following morning and time would continue onwards. I would have just taking the little knot in the thread with me. No big deal. Instead, there’s another Greg Lestrade out there sleeping, and in two hours and thirty three minutes, he _isn’t_ going to get the call that caused these events now. We have two and a half hours until the paradox causes damage to reality.”  
“There’s another me out there? I guess I never really thought about it like that.”   
“… _How_?” The Doctor looked at Greg incredulously.  
“General people don’t tend to think about things like this, Doctor,” Mycroft commented. He sounded resigned and tired, and Greg couldn’t really blame him all things considered.   
“I’m not letting Mycroft die. I can hear it in your voice that you think that’s the solution. Not happening.”   
“Mycroft surviving, and being admitted to the hospital by you, is now what happened,” the Doctor said slowly. He took a deep breath and looked at Greg. “It’s your personal timeline that is wrong now.”   
“My ti— _I’m_ the anomaly now?”  
“Greg Lestrade is in his flat, sleeping. He’ll wake up, go to work, and likely not even know Mycroft is here. You remember things that never happened, your existence is based on a past that no longer exists.”  
“Then… why do I still exist?” Greg felt timid in asking, but he had to know.   
“Because you’re an integral part of current events, and thus the paradox. Time requires your existence for these events to occur, but you come from somewhere that doesn’t exist anymore. You both saved and admitted Mycroft, and had nothing to do with it. And soon… the conflict will tear a hole in reality. They’ll be two of you—”  
“Yeah I get it,” Greg grumbled. He sighed and looked at Mycroft with sad eyes. “I’d do it again, you know,” he said quietly. He understood what needed to be done. 

Mycroft didn’t respond. He was overwhelmed with guilt. It was clear what the Doctor’s conclusion, or rather solution, was. There were only two possibilities now, and one made a lot more sense. In ending his own life, Mycroft just condemned the man he cared for more than any other. He couldn’t believe his ears when Greg had professed feelings for him; it was too good to be true. He’d gone all these years convinced he was unloveable, and yet that hadn’t stopped his heart from latching onto the handsome detective and never letting go. He’d not called him for help because he couldn’t bare to hear any rejection, or even the lack of care he desperately desired from the man. He had no idea things would turn out this way. Hell, he hadn’t even been sure he would even jump tonight. It was both a shock, and strangely comforting, to know that he had gotten the courage to do so and succeeded. And that Gregory had cared that much. He was actually glad to have been stopped. Was. The reality of what being saved now meant made him regret ever trying, to the point of also wishing he’d succeeded. 

The Doctor caught Mycroft’s eye. “I’ll just be outside. Don’t take too long,” he said, running his hand through his hair. He shuffled out of the room.   
“I could, instead—”  
“Don’t you fucking dare,” Greg growled, his eyes sad. “This all happened because of that. You have to promise me, Mycroft Holmes, that you’ll go to him when you feel like this. I’m proof that he won’t handle your loss at all.”   
“You… you’ve given my life a value I don’t know how to keep.”   
Greg felt a tear run down his cheek as he leaned forwards and placed a kiss on Mycroft’s head. “He’ll help you work it out.”  
“He’s not you.”   
“He’s me, Myc. Just… a version of me without the memories of the last day. A better version, in my opinion. He hasn’t had the world shattered around him and the pieces flown apart. I’d prefer that, you know.”   
“But what if—”  
“He still feels the same. You’ll just have to help give him a little push. It’s up to you, now. Don’t hurt him, please. Not like this.”   
“You know what you’re asking of me.”  
“I feel like I deserve to make that request.” Greg sniffled and took a deep breath. “It’s funny… I’ll still be here. I’ll get to see you, and you’ll make my world with your admission of care for me. Yet it doesn’t feel like me. I shouldn’t be scared… but I am. A few hours ago I wouldn’t have cared, and this is the best outcome I could have imagined and I’m still…”  
Mycroft opened his arms, and Gregory fell into them. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He truly was. “And I promise.”  
“Thank you,” Greg uttered, and sat up. “I’ll see you soon, Mycroft Holmes.” Greg leant in and pressed his lips to Mycroft’s in a tender kiss. He gave a bittersweet smile, and then left the room. 

The Doctor joined him, having walked across the hall to give them some space. Greg just looked at the floor and walked towards the exit. “How’s this going to happen, then?”  
“Hey, we’re not done yet. We’ve still got a bit of work to do to sort out this mess. First, we have to go back and call you, the other you, before Mycroft made it to the bridge. Mycroft needs to, that is. Then, we’ve gotta get the other you out of the way from then until now, when you’re leaving the hospital to go home.”  
Greg stopped, groaned, and then turned around back to Mycroft’s door. “And how is he going to do that? He can’t leave the room, and he’s not in a condition for you to try get him out, either.”   
“I’ll need get you out of here first, and just park the Tardis in his room. We just have to explain what we need him to do. So, uh, if you could act like you’re having a breakdown or something about now that’d be great.”   
Greg approached the door, rested his hand upon it, and then sighed. He let his head flop towards the ground. “Will it hurt, Doctor?”  
“No, Greg,” the Doctor said sombrely, placing a hand on Greg’s shoulder. “You’ll just go to sleep, and tomorrow… this’ll all just be a nightmare, one that you won’t even remember.” 

~

Greg stirred, and then bolted upright. He had a strange taste in his mouth, and his body felt heavy. _Hm, feels like I was drugged._ He looked about, seeing only his flat. Then the memories of the previous evening came back to him, and his stomach lurched. Mycroft had called in the middle of the night, depressed and suicidal, and he’d rushed out to get him… then… nothing. He groaned and grabbed his throbbing head. _Did I get there in time?_

He managed to get himself out of bed, and grabbed for his phone. He quickly checked his incoming calls, just to be sure he hadn’t dreamt the whole thing. Sure enough, there was a phone call from Mycroft Holmes at 2:47am. He wanted to call the number to abate the panic he felt inside because he couldn’t remember actually helping the man. If he had, and Mycroft was in care, then he’d not have his phone in all likelihood. If he hadn’t, then if Mycroft didn’t answer, it could mean… 

“Fuck it,” Greg groaned to himself, and pressed dial. He waited as the call rang out. He swallowed when it went to Myc’s voicemail. He squeezed his eyes shut and stumbled to find some paracetamol. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember anything after leaving his flat. He pulled down the tablets from the kitchen cupboard and downed them with a mouthful of water. That’s when he noticed a scrawled note on the bench. 

_Myc’s contact number, St Bart’s._

It was in his handwriting, but he had no recollection of writing it. He eyed the number below, and decided to give it a call. A ward nurse answered, and Greg merely asked if he could speak with Mycroft Holmes. She informed him that he was unable to take phone calls at this time, but that he could come and visit in visiting hours. He made a note on the scrap of paper what the opening hours were. 

_So, I must have gotten him to hospital. Why the fuck can’t I remember it? Was I just too hysteric?_ Greg reasoned that he would indeed be overly emotional if Mycroft had called him out of the blue to say he couldn’t keep on living. Given how panicked he’d felt when he’d gotten the call, he assumed it was possible that he’d blocked it out. Still, it was rather strange. He’d ask Mycroft what happened when he went to visit in an hour and a half, if Myc was in a place to talk.

He called the Yard to tell them he was taking the day off. Sally answered, and told him that she assumed he would be. Greg asked her why, and learned that he’d called for a car in the early hours to take Mycroft to St Bart’s. He thanked her, and she told him to get some rest. Apparently he’d been extremely stressed last night, and sounded worn out now. 

Greg entered Mycroft’s room, full of hesitation. He wasn’t sure what he’d find. The nurses had told Greg he was looking better, since according to the night staff, he’d not been coping well before he’d gone home. More pieces to the puzzle, at least. They had been the ones to give him the sleeping pill to take, which at least explained the drugged feeling when he woke. 

Mycroft looked sad. Not just depressed, but as if he’d lost someone or something. He tried to give Greg a smile, but it was empty. His eyes slid back down to his chest, and his face fell soon after. Greg sat in the chair beside the bed, asking Mycroft how he felt whilst he did so. Mycroft just looked at him in response. _Of course, there’s no point in asking, is there?_

“What happened, Myc?” Greg asked eventually. He phrased it as if he was asking for what brought Mycroft to this, but hoped that Mycroft would just explain the situation.   
“It had been a long time coming,” Mycroft responded. “I’ve gone to that spot many times in my life. I wasn’t sure how serious I was this time until… well, until you.”   
“Me?”  
Mycroft was hesitant, trying to work out what to say and have it still be true. Gregory simply let him take his time. “I realised that I was going to do it. End it all. And I also realised that you’d want me to call you first, before…”   
“Damned right I would, Myc. You’re… I-I can’t tell you what you mean to me,” Greg said awkwardly.  
“You should,” Mycroft uttered, “because it’d probably be the same as what you do to me.” 

Greg let the words sink in for a moment. Mycroft continued into Greg’s stunned silence, spilling out his emotions. It was a mix of the difficulties of anxiety and depression that he’d been trying to handle alone, and the secret desire he felt for Greg. How he couldn’t just leave without being honest with Greg, and wasn’t expecting anything in return, but hoped that maybe Greg would be willing to be there with him. That if that were the case, Mycroft would try his best to fight, as he’d have a reason to. Myc didn’t want to just have someone to stand on for support, but could appreciate if Greg didn’t want to potentially step into that situation. Once he was finished, Greg stood, and kissed him. 

They told Sherlock the situation, who showed Greg the video of himself pinning Mycroft to the ground. Greg still couldn’t remember anything, but the evidence was there before him. Ultimately it didn’t matter. He was there for Myc when he needed him, and he was forever grateful that Mycroft had called him for help. He told Mycroft as much, and that he wouldn’t know what he would have done if he’d woken that morning to find his body pulled from the water. Mycroft had given him a knowing smile, told him ‘I do’, and kissed his cheek. 


End file.
